Just Folks. Edgar A. Guest

It isn't hard to give or lend.

       Who gives but what he'll never miss

       Will never know what giving is.

       He'll win few praises from his Lord

       Who does but what he can afford.

       The widow's mite to heaven went

       Because real sacrifice it meant.

Reward

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      Don't want medals on my breast,

       Don't want all the glory,

       I'm not worrying greatly lest

       The world won't hear my story.

       A chance to dream beside a stream

       Where fish are biting free;

       A day or two, 'neath skies of blue,

       Is joy enough for me.

       I do not ask a hoard of gold,

       Nor treasures rich and rare;

       I don't want all the joys to hold;

       I only want a share.

       Just now and then, away from men

       And all their haunts of pride,

       If I can steal, with rod and reel,

       I will be satisfied.

       I'll gladly work my way through life;

       I would not always play;

       I only ask to quit the strife

       For an occasional day.

       If I can sneak from toil a week

       To chum with stream and tree,

       I'll fish away and smiling say

       That life's been good to me.

See It Through

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      When you're up against a trouble,

       Meet it squarely, face to face;

       Lift your chin and set your shoulders,

       Plant your feet and take a brace.

       When it's vain to try to dodge it,

       Do the best that you can do;

       You may fail, but you may conquer,

       See it through!

       Black may be the clouds about you

       And your future may seem grim,

       But don't let your nerve desert you;

       Keep yourself in fighting trim.

       If the worst is bound to happen,

       Spite of all that you can do,

       Running from it will not save you,

       See it through!

       Even hope may seem but futile,

       When with troubles you're beset,

       But remember you are facing

       Just what other men have met.

       You may fail, but fall still fighting;

       Don't give up, whate'er you do;

       Eyes front, head high to the finish.

       See it through!

To the Humble

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      If all the flowers were roses,

       If never daisies grew,

       If no old-fashioned posies

       Drank in the morning dew,

       Then man might have some reason

       To whimper and complain,

       And speak these words of treason,

       That all our toil is vain.

       If all the stars were Saturns

       That twinkle in the night,

       Of equal size and patterns,

       And equally as bright,

       Then men in humble places,

       With humble work to do,

       With frowns upon their faces

       Might trudge their journey through.

       But humble stars and posies

       Still do their best, although

       They're planets not, nor roses,

       To cheer the world below.

       And those old-fashioned daisies

       Delight the soul of man;

       They're here, and this their praise is:

       They work the Master's plan.

       Though humble be your labor,

       And modest be your sphere,

       Come, envy not your neighbor

       Whose light shines brighter here.

       Does God forget the daisies

       Because the roses bloom?

       Shall you not win His praises

       By toiling at your loom?

       Have you, the toiler humble,

       Just reason to complain,

       To shirk your task and grumble

       And think that it is vain

       Because you see a brother

       With greater work to do?

       No fame of his can smother

       The merit that's in you.

When Nellie's on the Job

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      The bright spots in my life are when the servant quits the place,

       Although that grim disturbance brings a frown to Nellie's face;

       The week between the old girl's' reign and entry of the new

       Is one that's filled with happiness and comfort through and through.

       The charm of living's back again—a charm that servants rob—

       I like the home, I like the meals, when Nellie's on the job.

       There's something in a servant's ways, however fine they be,

       That has a cold and distant touch and frets the soul of me.

       The old home never looks so well, as in that week or two

       That we are servantless and Nell has all the work to do.

       There is a sense of comfort then that makes my pulses throb

       And home is as it ought to be when Nellie's on the job.

       Think not that I'd deny her help or grudge the servant's pay;

       When one departs we try to get another right away;

       I merely state the simple fact that no such joys I've known